


Picking My Heart

by JoCarthage



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 20:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18880297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: Michael kept something from the toolshed beside his scars.





	Picking My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I've only watched through ep 11 as of tonight, so this contains spoilers through that point.

Michael leaned his head against the press-wood board of his Airstream's cabinets. He knew exactly what's in it: a half-bag of Cheetos, a half-empty sixer of Dos Equis, and dust from the last haboob. Oh, and the guitar pick.

He couldn't remember how he'd grabbed it, got a hold of it when the Master Sergeant was smashing any hope he had of playing professionally between the plywood table and his silver-flashing hammer. But sometime after finding Isobel in the incubator mine and before curling up around his pain in the back of his junker, he'd felt it prick against his skin. He'd pulled it out that night under the stars, rubbing his unbroken thumb over and over its smoothness, shoving the angle of it into the soft flesh of his palm when the pain from his broken hand sang too strongly.

He'd kept it close to his skin, even when he crashed at hook-up's places, when his junker finally died and he was sleeping behind the bar for a few weeks. He kept it.

He’d nearly snapped it in half the day he'd heard Alex had gone to boot camp. He'd ran his thumb down the sharp side as he charted the distance between them out in his head a hundred, hundred times. He didn't have the book collection Max loved, but maps were free at the AAA office/post office/convenience store off Delores. He'd take 380 east across the border to Brownfield, then 87 south, hooking up with 83 and straight to San Antonio, where the Air Force ran their version of basic. One of his foster brothers had called it "chair force" before he'd failed the Marines entrance requirements on account of his florid neck tat and daily green habit.

But Michael’s truck had died and he didn't have any kind of cash for a Greyhound much less a cellphone bill. And this was pre-Obama, though only barely, but it was enough. Don't Ask Don't Tell meant that if Michael did what he dreamed, stood outside the gates of the base and shouted until they gave him Alex back, well. Even the wrong implication, the wrong call could kill Alex's career before it even began. At the time, with hunger in his belly, his hand in a half-ass cast, and the guitar pick between his teeth, it had seemed the least he could do to leave Alex be. Keep Alex from drowning in Michael's mess.

Michael gritted his teeth, rolling his head against the cabinets to try and loosen the pain in his neck. Alex had just stomped away, their attempt at friendship and beers fizzling at the first attempt Michael had made to defend his siblings and their generally-speaking shitty choices. Not that he was one to talk, the only man he'd had much love in his heart for had driven off in a huff because he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut.

Michael could hear the whine, the pain-tinged tingle rising. There wasn't a lot of electricity around him to break things with, but there was a bare bulb in the junkyard that he could smash. He took a breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. It smelled stale and dusty, but what was new. Again. Another breath. Again. Without thinking, without meaning to, he watched his unscarred hand rise, open the crooked-doored cabinet, and creep to the back. There it was, flat against the rough wood. He felt it zing against his skin, electric in a way that had nothing to do with his heritage and everything to do with his bruised-skinned heart.

It was a little smaller than it had been that first night under the stars, the plastic softening and smoothing with a decade of touching. His thumb ran along the familiar curves, some lines untangling in his heart, some veins opening up, oxygen lightening the load.

He'd tucked it up in there after he'd come back from that night with DeLuca. It had felt -- like an ending, after what Alex had said in the Wild Pony. He'd never been one to stretch out decisions, just rip the skin off and let the healing hurt however it was going to. But there hadn't been a minute since he'd tucked it away that he hadn't missed its familiar poke, the feel of it between his fingers.

The roar of a truck approached and he forced himself to stand, heels flat on the ground, face blank. He shoved his black hat down over his head and stepped into the red-brown dusk, already scanning for whatever after hours customer needed whatever cut-rate repair to their thrice-sold car next.

But it wasn't some customer. He gripped the pick so hard he felt the thin plastic flex, cutting into his palm, denting the skin.

It was Alex's truck. 

Alex looked determined. Like he had in the museum. Like he had when he'd said he wanted to say what he wanted to say.

Like he knew where he stood.

Michael looked down, looking at the long shadows of the sun-set washed junkyard, catching his full lower lip between his teeth, worrying it. He had no idea which of their many fights Alex wanted to start over again. Had no idea what to say. Saying things had never been his thing: Max loved his lectures and Isobel loved her cutting words. But he kept. That was what he did. He kept things simple and he kept: kept himself in Roswell, when he wanted to be nearly anyplace else on earth, preferable off it; kept Isobel company when she needed protection; kept the pick. He hadn't been kept by the people who had raised him and so he kept himself.

Alex pulled himself out of the truck, staggering a little as he came towards Michael. Michael looked away, knowing he hated it when people stared. 

So it wasn't Alex's eyes that Michael saw, or his full mouth, or his wonderful, tight chest coming closer; it was the tips of his boots. They stopped just inside of his personal space, just close enough Michael knew he was close enough to touch. He gripped the pick tighter. Alex could give and take his friendship, but Michael had kept this pick for a decade and he wasn't going to lose it now.

"Hey," Alex said, his voice low and cutting through the desert wind.

Michael nodded, feeling that pressure behind his eyes. He realized he really didn't want to hear what part of his life Alex was dissatisfied by this time. But he kept standing there and gripped the pick tighter, the pain of it bringing him a special focus. He kept himself near Alex; he didn't run.

"Hey," Alex said again, voice softer, and Michael saw his boots take a half-step closer, gait uneven. He knew he needed to look up, to say something, but he had no idea where to start.

Alex's hands came to squeeze his upper arms, sliding down his bare skin -- and oh, if that wasn't a constellation, a shimmering multi-colored sparkle of feeling, just the rough of his palms against the fine hair of his arms -- and caught around his wrists. Alex pulled his bunched fists between them, holding them in his firm hands.

"What do you have there," he asked, like he was coaxing a terrified kitten out from under a dumpster. Michael ground his teeth at the thought. He wasn't _weak_ , he wasn't _small_ , he didn't need to be --

He forced his hands open, glaring a challenge into Alex's eyes. But Alex wasn't looking at him. He was looking down at the pick, sitting like jewel in Michael's broad palm. It was turquoise as Liz's jewelry, had had some kind of silver logo at some point, long-since worn into Michael's skin. He held it out like it was nothing, because he couldn't imagine explaining it.

But when Alex's eyes rose to meet his, it was all in there: that afternoon in the shed, the guitar, the music he'd played. All those afternoons Alex had heard him playing but never come in, sat in the desert brush and heard his concerts for an audience of one. All those nights.

And he was close, closer than he had been, body tenser than it had been. He dropped Michael's hands and Michael braced, ready for something about stealing, about sentimentality, about _trash_.

But it didn't come. Instead, as slow as breathing, as slow as the shifting of the wind from dry into rain, Alex took the only step between them forward, arms going around his stiff body. It was awkward, Alex leaning into him, Michael could feel his body not responding, doing this, even this small thing _wrong_. _What kind of kid doesn't know how to hug?_

And then he wrapped his fingers around the pick and his arms around Alex, his body relaxing into him, letting the curves and lines of them melding around each other, letting his breath match his breath, letting his warmth mingle with the other man's warmth.

"I'm sorry," Alex said. "I shouldn't have pushed on your family. I know how much they mean to you. If we're going to do this friend thing, I need to be better about that."

Michael nodded, not so much agreeing as needing to respond in some way. Alex held him there in the desert wind for a long time, before he whispered:

"I remember that one. I'd been afraid it had been lost. I always loved that turquoise color --"

And Michael wanted to rip the sky open, give him all the turquoise in all the planets in all the entire universe. A fleeting thought told him he should give Alex the pick back; but he was too selfish for that. He couldn't. He needed it, for the next time someone decided not to keep him. He gripped it and the man between his arms tighter.

Alex pulled back, hands lingering over the lines of Michael's back in a way that didn't feel just friendly. Michael's belly turned with a searing, liquid feeling at the unexpected tenderness of it. Alex kept his hands on Michael's upper arms as he drew back, looking up at him.

"Can I -- can I make you dinner? Maybe we can try again," and Ales gave a rueful smile glinting in the last of the sun, "This time I'll try not to go after your family."

"I don't really have a kitchen -- " Michael started.

And Alex smiled, shaking his head at himself. "I can host. Come on, come by my place."

"I have food," Michael spat, bluff hurting inside his chest.

Alex closed his eyes, maybe breathing in, breathing out. Again. Again. Bright eyes open:

"I know you do; but I got some veggies that are going to go bad if we don't eat them. So I'd appreciate the help."

Michael felt his glare soften, pride easing.

"I'll bring the beers," he said mutinously, thinking of the sixer in the cabinet.

"Great," Alex said. He traced his hand around Michael's where it held the pick.

"I'm glad you kept it," he murmured, "I didn't have anything of yours to keep but I wanted it. I always want it, something that was ours."

Michael nodded, then looked down at the pick. He opened his hand, looking it over. 

A thought came to him:

"I could make you one. There's enough plastic around here, and I know we have the tools."

Alex looked up into his eyes, searching for long warm breaths as the desert cooled with the setting sun, the light making his face look golden in its dying rays,

"I would love that, Michael."

Michael nodded and went to turn to get the beers from the Airstream when he felt a tug, not on his hand, but in his gut. He whirled back around and pulled Alex into another hug, his fisted hand going around his waist, his scarred palm pressing the other man's head in close to his. He took a shuddering breath, keeping the air in his lungs until he could let it out without shaking. Then another, and another.

When he could breathe without Alex's body touching his, he slipped his hand into his back pocket, sliding the pick along the thin cotton and nestling it safe in the bottom. Only once he knew it was secure did he step away.


End file.
